


Rooms

by CrimeAlley1048



Category: Bat Fam - Fandom, Batfamily - Fandom, Batman (Comics), Robin (Comics)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-10-22 15:23:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17665082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrimeAlley1048/pseuds/CrimeAlley1048
Summary: The new Robin explores Wayne Manor.





	Rooms

Tim wasn’t _lost_ , exactly, but it felt like he was. He knew his way back to the front door— out of the bedroom, turn right, up the hallway, right again, left, right, and down the staircase— but that was only because he kept careful track. There were a lot of rooms in the manor. It went on for years, Tim felt, and everything was absolutely empty. Tim had only been in the house for two weeks, but two weeks of exploration had taught him enough.

  
It was like walking through a dream. Tim could easily believe that he was imagining the whole building. It was too flat, too impersonal, too neat, and Tim knew that was only Alfred’s work, but it felt eery and fake. Tim would never have guessed that anyone lived here.

  
When he thought about it, that made sense. The manor explained a lot about Bruce.

  
Tim took one last look around the bedroom. There was nothing to see except for a vacant, made-up bed and a chest of drawers that Tim had already pulled open, one by one, to find them all empty. He backed out the doorway and chose the next room, the last one on the hall. He tested the door to see if it was locked. It swung open easily.

  
This room was different. There was a skylight on a ceiling painted blue with white clouds. The furniture was the same dark wood as the rest of the manor: a desk, a nightstand, a set of drawers carved with intricate patterns, but the nightstand was lined with careful rows of plastic beakers, test tubes, and pipettes— like a child’s science set.

  
The desk had a long, rectangular sheet of paper taped to the corners, spread over the whole surface. Tim stepped forward and saw that it was covered in drawings, faded around the patch of sunlight that fell from the skylight. Some of them were detailed renderings of faces and plants. Some of them were kid’s drawings of swords and knights. Sometimes, the two styles appeared together— one detailed pencil sketch of an eye, surrounded by a half dozen of a child’s attempts to copy it.

  
A nightlight glowed, still lit, next to the bed. That was strange. None of the other rooms had lights on. Everything he saw told Tim that this was a child’s room, but what child? As far as he knew, he was the youngest person in the manor, and he was fourteen. His room was in the west wing, in the hallway by the stairs.

  
Dick’s room was on the third floor, up in the spiral that overlooked the garden. Jason’s was— had been— in the east wing. Tim hadn’t seen that one. He didn’t think Bruce would appreciate him wandering in.

  
This room didn’t belong to either Dick or Jason. Tim stepped forward to examine the nightlight, and the floor creaked underneath him; Tim heard the sound of something hollow. He bent down and tapped a finger against the floorboards. Hollow again. There was something underneath them.

  
Tim flipped open his knife (a gift from Dick) and used it to pry up the offending floorboard. The gap underneath it was deeper than he expected— two hands down and several of the floorboards across. A leather pouch, a notebook, and a stack of manilla folders sat on the bottom. Tim opened the notebook first.

  
The first few pages were a half-finished short story about a spy, written in orange marker on the yellowed paper. There were pages of drawings like the ones on the desk, then pages where the alphabet was written out in a column, next to corresponding symbols— designs for secret codes. The rest of the notebook was blank.

  
Tim opened the first manilla folder and found a very old picture of Alfred scotch-taped into the inside cover, labelled in a kid’s handwriting— “Secret file: Alfred Pennyworth.” The folder had a half dozen papers inside it, all recounting different stories about Alfred’s past. Tim read through them. They made him smile. He knew exactly who this room belonged to.

  
The second folder had a hand-drawn, floor by floor map of Wayne Manor stacked inside it. Tim left the other two folders and opened up the leather pouch. A handful of pewter soldiers slid into his palm. They were all painted beautifully in bright colors, with tiny crests on their shields.

  
“My mother painted those,” said Bruce’s voice, so close behind Tim that he jumped in surprise and guilt. Was he supposed to be in here? Was that allowed?

  
“She was an artist,” Bruce continued. “I used to think I would be one too.” He glanced wistfully at the desk covered in drawings: Martha Wayne’s and Bruce’s, Tim realized.

  
“Then… why didn’t you do it? Become an artist?”

  
Bruce shrugged. “Other responsibilities.” He looked around the room and sighed. “Things changed.”

  
He didn’t have to elaborate. Tim knew what he meant. Martha Wayne died when Bruce was nine years old, and by the looks of it, Bruce had abandoned this room directly afterwards.

  
“I slept in Alfred’s room that night,” Bruce explained. “And then I… I never came back. I moved downstairs, then into the master bedroom after it was… cleared out.

  
Tim nodded. He didn’t want to push his luck, but he had one more question. “Why is the light still on?”

  
“So that something stays the same,” said Bruce simply. He knelt by Tim and gently placed his pile of secrets back into their hiding place, where they had been for decades.

  
There were a lot of ghosts in Wayne Manor, Tim thought, and Bruce was one of them. Could you be haunted by yourself? Tim stood up and stepped back to give Bruce more room. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I was just… exploring.”

  
“I know.” Bruce smiled slightly as he set the floorboard back into place. “You’re not the first to find this room, secret files included. I wouldn’t expect any less from you.”

  
“Dick?” Tim asked.

  
“And Jason. You’re fulfilling a family tradition.”

  
Tim’s heart lifted at the word ‘family.’ Bruce didn’t seem to notice.

  
“Explore all you want,” he said, standing up. “Although I suggest you take a break and head to the kitchen. Alfred made scones. I’m on my way there now.”

  
“Right,” said Tim. “Which way is the kitchen?”

  
“I’ll show you.” Bruce smiled again and walked through the doorframe, down the hall. Tim took one last look at Bruce’s room.

  
“Family,” he repeated, then followed Bruce out the door.

 


End file.
